


Drop

by SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff



Series: So Into You [2]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Face-Sitting, Finger Sucking, General Nicola Worship, GentleDom!Nicola, Malcolm Tucker is a Filthy Tart, Service Submission, Smoking, sub!Malcolm, toe sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28841466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff
Summary: Sister-fic to Drip. GentleDom!Nicola gets the worship she deserves.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Series: So Into You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114823
Comments: 18
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My brain said - what if Nicola took charge for once?   
> And Ariana said - can you stay up all night?

There’s a slight shake in Malcolm’s hand that has nothing to do with the chill in his toes through his socks from the kitchen tiles, or the sharpness of the knife he’s using to carve off delicate slices of cheddar. It has nothing to do with the fact that he knows she’s upstairs in her underwear, not really, though that mental image is at least seventy percent responsible for the way he has to stop and adjust himself a little as he reaches up into the cupboard to get the crackers out. The only thing he knows for sure is that she’ll be in that little blush pink slip, and other than that her plans for the evening are a mystery to him. That’s exactly how he likes it. He can’t do _this_ if he can predict what she’s going to do, and luckily for him she’s starting to become very in tune with her unpredictable side. She’s probably been doing fucking _research_. Quite literally.

He’s eaten already, so he’s able to focus solely on what she likes, piling up some dark red grapes next to the salt and pepper crackers and slicing a peach to splay delicately across the other side of the board. The juice drips down across his hand slightly as he slices it in his palm, unwilling to get out a chopping board just to have to wash it up later. He’s got much more worthwhile things to be doing later, if she lets him. He wipes his hand on the side of his trousers, knowing the slightly fluffy stickiness will drive her mad if she happens to spot it. Nobody ever said he had to be _good_. Good and obedient are definitely two very different things, and he’s learning to walk a fine line on both sides. Just enough of this, just enough of that, he thinks as he pops a couple of Laughing Cow triangles on the cheeseboard. She likes what she likes.

There’s a very cold glass in the fridge that he takes out next, holding it by the stem so as to not leave fingerprints in the frosted glass. She likes watching the way it sweats in the warmth of the bedroom, dripping down onto the bedside table under her ever-watchful gaze. Likes the way the cold against her fingertips and the edges of her teeth sets off all her nerve endings at once. He knows her, sees through her like glass, and it’s only because she knows him like that too that this can work at all, on any level. There’s a never-ending supply of sliced lime in a Tupperware at the top of the fridge, and he pops a few in the glass along with a few mint leaves from the plant on the kitchen windowsill, adding a little lime juice from the cupboard just for the way it tastes on her lips afterwards, for the way her lips purse when she comes across a particularly sharp bit. A couple of ice cubes clink in satisfactorily, followed by a good glug of thick, sweet mango juice and enough fizzy water that it’s fizzy, but not _too_ fizzy. This particular balance is a game of hit and miss, trial and consequence, and if he hasn’t got it just right, there will definitely be repercussions. He monitors the bubbles for just a moment, satisfied he’s made the right choices, before he heads upstairs, offerings balanced on a tray neatly.

‘Come in’ she calls before he’s even knocked the door, which should surprise him, but nothing about her surprises him when they share nights like this. She can take him by surprise, of course, frequently does, but when it comes to her observational talents, he’s learnt that she’s practically fucking psychic. It feels good, to be known. True to form, she’s wearing the little pink slip, a blush coloured satiny, shiny scrap of a thing that’s just tight enough to hug the soft curve of her belly, the swell of her breast, but just forgiving enough that he can slide his hands up inside. She won’t take it off, not tonight, it’s not one of the ones that ever ends up on the bedroom floor, or behind the sofa, or discarded somewhere near the fruit bowl. It’s special, this one. She holds her hand out for the drink, and sighs happily as her fingers meet the cold curve of the glass and it melts underneath her touch. ‘Thank you’ she murmurs, gesturing for him to sit. He sits in front of her on the edge of the bed, still holding the tray carefully until she’s ready to eat. Sometimes she wants to eat first, sometimes it gets left until later, until just-caught breath turns into softly rumbling stomachs, the need for intimacy without direct touch. He’s not sure what she wants tonight. That’s part of the fun.

‘Sit behind me.’ She edges forwards with a grace that is difficult to achieve in a slip that barely covers your thighs, but she looks no less poised than a minor royal exiting a taxi. There’s a flash of very much inner thigh, but nothing more, and it’s easily recovered as she settles a little way away from the headboard, leaving enough room for him to slide in behind her. He takes her glass, settling it on the bedside table, and offers her the platter, which she takes eagerly. ‘This looks delicious, darling’ she says softly, and he feels a warm swell of validation at her words, feeling proud of the time he’d taken to pick out the very crispest grapes, to slice the cheese into wafer-thin curls that will melt on her tongue in just the right way. It’s always worth it, taking a little extra time and effort to produce something extra-special. They’re both very firm believers in doing things right or not at all.

From where he’s settled behind her, long legs stretched out on either side of her hips, it’s easy to reach forward and select something, to hold it up to her lips and try not to whimper as she nibbles, licks and sucks her dinner out of his fingers. Once upon a time he could never have dared to suggest hand-feeding her, not least in just his boxers and her little nightie, mostly because she wouldn’t have been able to countenance the idea of food anywhere near the bed. He’d broken through that particular hang-up one memorable evening with a punnet of ripe summer strawberries and a dish of double cream, but that’s a story for another time. For tomorrow morning, in the shower, most likely, but tonight’s not about him. It’s all about her. He wants to say something, to tell her how beautiful she looks, her body reflected back at him in the ornate mirror that she’s moved from it’s home in the hallway to sit in front of the chest of drawers opposite the end of the bed. He’s _allowed_ to talk, that’s a very firm rule, he’s always to communicate and tell her if something comes into his mind, but upon a moment’s consideration he finds it doesn’t really need saying. She clearly knows she’s gorgeous, that’s evident by the slight self-satisfied tug at the edge of her lips, the crooked smile she gives him before she slips his index finger into her mouth after the last grape is gone, twisting her hot tongue around his finger in a way that isn’t so much elegance as pure animal lust. Fucking _hell_.

She reaches out, and he’s half-hoping she’s going to make for the posh lube bottle on the side and turn on him, pin him down into soft clean bedsheets and have her way with him, but no such luck. Not yet, at least. She slides her hand around the wet curve of her condensing wine glass and takes a hearty mouthful, drawing some courage from it despite the lack of alcohol. They don’t need artificial stimulants, there’s no need for Dutch courage here, everything is perfectly safe even as she puts her glass back down with a very definite ‘clink’ and he suddenly feels like he’s been cornered down an alley by both a fourty foot lioness and her sneaky viper best mate. ‘Come here’ she says, her voice firmer and a little less warm than before, though it feels no less loving. ‘Yes’ he agrees immediately, knowing better than to opt for a characteristic ‘mhmm.’ ‘Nicola’ he adds, almost as an afterthought. His late attention to the rules of the game earns him the beginnings of a frown as he moves round to lie next to her, where she’s gesturing with the manicured fingers of one hand. ‘Again.’ ‘Yes Nicola.’ ‘Better.’

He wins a kiss for his efforts, a deep molten sort of snog that ends with her hands squeezing his arse, and his clenched in the bedsheets, fingers twitching with the desire to touch. ‘Please, Nicola’ he requests, though it comes out more on the side of begging. ‘Please, what, poppet?’ The endearment makes him blush, always does, though it makes him slip further into his headspace too, solidifies around him in a protective bubble. Everything _here_ is different to the things out there. Just how he likes it. ‘Please let me touch you.’ ‘Question.’ ‘Please may I touch you?’ ‘Of course.’ He seizes his chance as if there’s a chance she might revoke the privilege, which she absolutely wouldn’t, it’d be utterly contrary to her own desires, and tonight is absolutely about her getting absolutely whatever she wants all the time. He knows this, knows she’d never turn him away, and yet he leans into the desperation and runs with it, mostly just for the thrill of it. ‘So good for me’ she murmurs, stroking her fingers through his slightly curled hair as he wraps both arms around her waist and kisses her neck, inhaling her scent. There’s that blush again, the utter bone-deep contentment at being good at something. ‘Want you properly, tonight, since you’ve been so good’ she adds just as he reaches those freckles right by her collarbone, and the moan that slips from his lips at the knowledge he’ll be allowed to come is thankfully half-muffled by the way he’s trying to practically consume her with his mouth. Not that she doesn’t notice. She notices _everything_.

Just because he has some sense of where the evening is likely to end, or at least one of the destinations they’ll pass along the way, doesn’t mean he’s in any sense in control or able to dictate what’s going to happen. She makes him spend a good twenty minutes licking her toes, inhaling ‘cashmere daisy’ shower gel off the arch of her sensitive feet, running his tongue over tiny little toes that seem utterly unfeasibly small to him. Though she’d look fairly ridiculous with his long toes on her size four feet. His efforts earn him a pleased but concise ‘good’. He can do better than good. ‘May I –‘ he doesn’t get as far as suggesting anything before she’s wrapped her hand in his curls again and is tugging him, just roughly enough, up towards her cunt. She knows what she wants, he’ll give her that. He’ll give her fucking _anything_. The smell of her is enough to make him close his eyes for a moment, inhale deeply, both to consume her as deeply as possible but also to try and work past the tightness in his throat, working in tandem with the shift of his cotton boxers against his neglected cock to make his head spin. ‘Get on with it’ she instructs, right on the edge of sharp, and God, that _really_ doesn’t help. He better get on with it before she says anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous sexy smoking in this chapter, apologies to respiratory consultants everywhere.

She tastes fucking gorgeous, but he's barely managed to lick a slow stripe over her wetness before her tight grip on his hair loosens and she shuffles backwards, her thighs sliding closed. No, no no no. Fuck. "Smoke" is all she says, her voice low and just the right side of husky, and it takes all of his energy to prevent himself from having a strop. She really won't take kindly to any insolence, not at this stage of the game. There's a desperation bubbling away low in his stomach, tight around his crotch and then looser, fizzier as it spreads through his limbs right down to his fingers and toes. He can feel the flush of warmth across his chest and up his neck, knows he's blushing but he's absolutely incapable of stopping it. Suddenly her hand is back in his hair, tangling in the soft curls at the back of his head and pulling. Hard. "Mmggh-" he protests, though it's half-hearted at best, what he really wants to say is "more, more", which thrums through his bloodstream like the nicotine she's craving. "A _fucking_ smoke, Malcolm. Now." 

The speed and lack of grace with which he scrambles from the bed when she lets go of his hair would be deeply embarassing if he still had any critical thinking skills. There's a "secret" packet of cigarettes in the bedside drawer for exactly this purpose, though who they're a secret from neither of them are quite sure. She's standing at the windowsill, the little slip riding up so it's barely covering her arse, the downy hairs on her arms standing up a little in the breeze streaming through the open window. Thank god they don't have any neighbours. "Light it." "Yes, Nicola" he remembers, in time to escape a telling off. The lighter he found in the drawer shakes slightly as he lights it and watches it for a moment to make sure it's burning evenly. Do it properly, he reminds himself. "Good" she murmurs, before he holds it up to her lips and she takes a drag, holding it in her mouth for just a second before blowing the smoke out of the window. It shouldn't be so fucking sexy. It has no right being so hot, considering what's heading into her lungs. Still. Something gets us all in the end, and she's giving up except for when she's doing this. It's an extension of the persona, a way of making herself feel more aloof and detatched. He doesn't quite want to analyse why he likes her so much when she's being a complete bitch. It's easy to tell when she wants the cigarette back, there's a little twitch at the corner of her lips that let's him know. He holds it for her till she's done, till it's burnt out to just a little stub, which she takes and grinds into the outside ledge of the window with a steely determination that makes him shiver. Or maybe it's just the breeze. Or the persistent throb of his cock. Either way. 

"Kneel." God, that's one of his absolute favourite words that ever falls out of her mouth, second only to some much more tender ones that he knows he won't be hearing for a while tonight. He doesn't need tenderness. He does need the way she wraps her small hand around his shoulder and forces him down onto the carpet at the end of the bed. "Fucking _talk_ " she reminds him, sharp and yet utterly loving in her own way. The carpet is soft under his knees as he settles at the end of the bed, the soles of his feet against the drawers underneath, sat back on his heels with his head tilted up towards the ceiling. It feels like prayer, in some sort of deeply blasphemous way. The only sort he'll ever come close to, so hopefully it's doing some good up there. "Yes, Nicola" he remembers, far, far too late, and she comes closer and pinches his nipple as payback. His breath hisses out of his teeth unbidden, the sharp twist of pain going straight to his cock. "You need some fucking practice" she informs him. He's about to get a lesson. Better make sure he's listening properly this time. 

She kneels down in front of him, which is unusual in itself. She tends to enjoy being taller than him. He wonders what she's up to. Leaning in close, she presses a series of open mouthed, wet kisses to his neck, before biting hard just behind his ear. A deep moan sneaks out, but then she's talking, so he forces himself to pay attention. His brain is utterly empty of anything but this moment, the closeness of her, the way she leans in again to whisper in his ear. "You're a fucking little _tart_ , Malcolm Tucker" she purrs, and it takes most of his concentration to not come in his boxers right then, and the rest of it to respond verbally. "Yes, Nicola." There's a responsive happy little hum, which validates him beyond belief. "Yes. And you're a desperate, whiny mess of a man." He swallows hard, pushing any leftover vestiges of his ego right to the back of his mind. "Yes, Nicola." She hums deep from her chest, a throaty litttle noise that she also makes when she's just about to come, and it's enough to make his whole body shiver where he's knelt with his head tipped back, letting her lick and bite at his neck. "And you're going to eat me out until I tell you to stop" is all the warning she gives him before she stands, settles her gorgeous toned legs on either side of him, a deep stance that pushes her snatch right up against his mouth as she leans forward and drapes her body over the bed. There's no air for speaking or thinking anymore. Just this, her, his mouth, the simplest of instructions. Bliss. 

* * *

It feels good to be in control. To be demanding, exacting, high-maintenance, without any repercussions. To have someone give themselves entirely to the pursuit of your pleasure, without any regard for themselves. He's so fucking _good_. She shifts a little atop his face, pressing herself down against his eager tongue and whimpers ever so softly as he sucks hard around her clit. "Good" she murmurs, and he takes the praise and runs with it, giving her just what she needs over and over and over. He can probably hardly breathe down there, giving her everything he's got and more, his hot tongue against her clit as she rides his face roughly, fists clenched in the sheets. Just because he's submitting doesn't mean he's lost his agency, and just as she's getting close he changes tactic, opting for decisive, firm licks over her clit that make her yell. Fucking _hell_. "Don't fucking stop, just like that, so good for me, so good." He moans into her oversensitive cunt and the vibration of it tips her over into a sharp, bright orgasm that bursts and crackles like tinfoil in a microwave. She's practically crushing him with her thighs, shaking from hips to toes with the effort of riding his face like this, but to his credit he doesn't stop, or even slow. "Enough, pet. S'enough" she assures him, managing to lift her hips so he can breathe. "Cmere" she adds, knowing he'll just sit on the carpet obediently if she doesn't say. 

When he joins her on the bed, lying down next to her, she turns to gaze at him and notices the mess she's made of his mouth, and his chin, most of his face in fact. She leans in to kiss him, licking her taste from his lips, then hands him a tissue from the side. He'll get fussy if he stays sticky. "What have you done for me this week? Been good?" she asks quietly, listening to him as she gets her breath back. He's always truthful, so she racks up his achievements in her head and wonders what she'll treat him with this time. "Uh, I-" he starts, and his hesitation makes her grin. No wonder his brain is foggy considering what he's just been doing. "I did your car insurance. Washed everyone's bedsheets, ironed them. Updated your LinkedIn. Planted some bulbs. Think I've been pretty good, eh?" He tries, hopefully, and she'd usually remind him that it's up to her to decide, but his crooked smile is just too eager to tear down. "Yeah. Very good." She leans in again, giving him a gentle kiss of thanks. "Wanna shag me, then?" She offers casually, and the speed with which he sits bolt upright but then doesn't know what to do with himself makes her laugh. 

"You're allowed to do anything, darling. You can make decisions now. We'll talk about everything later, just do what feels good for you. It's your treat" she soothes gently, encouraging him back down and sliding his boxers off in one smooth motion. She hands him the lube off the side, and he slicks up, clearly trying to avoid touching himself too much, which is why she hadn't volunteered. Prep done, he arranges her with ever gentle hands on hips, thighs, shoulders, until he's spooning up behind her, her leg tucked back over his to encourage a deeper angle. Thank God she's bendy. Her slip is still on, pushed up over her hips, and one of his hands comes up to stroke over her nipple. It won't take much for him to come undone after the way she's been teasing him all evening, and she probably won't be far behind. The second is always the easiest. He lets out a choked-off moan as he carefully slides inside her, and before him she's never been so roundly fucked in a way that feels so deeply worshipful. It's like she's a goddess, a gorgeous perfect prize that he can't believe he's getting to claim, and the thrill of it curls in her pelvis and down to her toes as his free hand finds her clit.

The rhythm they settle into is slow, lazy, but not drawn out, neither are inclined towards further teasing. She murmurs away to him, mostly about how good he is, occasionally how beautiful, cataloging the ways her words make him moan, make him thrust slightly harder, make his hand shake against her clit. "You're so fucking beautiful" seems to be a favourite, so she gives it to him a few times in succession, a mantra, emphasising different words each time with an ever so slightly exaggerated husky posh accent. He never tells her to shut up in the bedroom, and she always takes full advantage. Soon after, she can tell he's holding back, his thrusts slowing as he tries to keep himself together long enough to drag her over with him. Bless. "M'right there, baby, so close. Come for me and I'll come too" she promises, and she means every word. Whether its the reassurance, the permission or the pet name, he whimpers into the crook of her neck and starts moving with purpose again. He's hitting just the right angle inside her as his fingers slip a little roughly over her sensitive clit, enthusiasm winning out over dexterity, but thankfully it's just what she needs. His desperate "fuck, Nic, I'm-" is followed before he can finish his thoughts by a deep half-moan, half-yelp, but his fingers don't still as he comes inside her. Always so good. She doesn't need it though, already there from the feel of him, the sound of him, and she slips over with a much softer "oh, _fuck_ " into a twirling, lazy, pooling sort of orgasm that makes all her muscles go limp. 

It takes them both a few minutes to catch their breath, to gently slide away and briefly detangle before cuddling up again more comfortably. Providing aftercare to Malcolm Tucker is no easy feet, she's only got half the keys to that brain of his even now, and it's dependent on him letting her in, but they'll come to that later. She gazes over at him for a few long moments, takes him in and runs her fingers over his neck, making sure she didn't hurt him earlier. "How you feelin?" She asks quietly, his head on her chest, and he presses a soft kiss to her breast and mumbles "fuckin great." She trusts him. But there's no harm in taking a few more minutes to cuddle before they get on with the rest of the matters in hand. " _Good_ " is all she needs to say, and he melts into her a little more and smiles that lopsided, lazy smile.


End file.
